Monday, September 28, 2015

When you’re hellbent on sourcing some killer mayo, and your freezer is empty as the supermarkets are closed, there’s no point trying to strangle a duck.

But how does hellbentness sit with any kind of hiatus?

Till the supermarkets open?

Or a yolk-laden duck slips its rear end over the edge of your mixing bowl and points a feathered wing at the whisk dangling from your utensil gazebo?

This is where it pays to make with the zen, the kung fu, the deep space karmic wizardry.

No kind of hellbentness ever sat anywhere.

It exists and persists only to strain at the leash till it burns the raison d’être of its bendy through part of the cosmos.

(Or it would, if you could break into your neighbour’s house, raid the fridge, and rustle up a cheese salad sandwich.)

So you have to stay on your feet, on the move, on the hop, like a pregnant gazelle.

Allow the foal of your bendy to roll and tumble in the womb.

Yes — you have a gazelle foal in that hellhole, because nothing makes sense when you can’t still your bendy.

And you mustn’t still your bendy, not for some while yet, or it’ll burn out through your navel, roll onto the floor in a ball of flames and maybe incinerate a Dachshund.

Make with the Haka like the All Blacks!

Go crazy with a sword like Sulu rampaging through the corridors of the Enterprise back in the days when the input knobbery for warp drive consoles was sourced from toasters and junked hifi!

Dance like Victoria Beckham trying not to pee down her leg!

Lull that bendy into submission.

Roll it, rock it, lower it gently to the ground.

If there’s a Dachshund nearby, instruct the owner to run for cover, along with the dog.

If there’s more than one Dachshund nearby — what in hell are you doing being hellbent in a kennel in the first place?

There’s more to life than pooches shaped like Bratwurst!

Get back on the Haka before they come runnin’ over to lick your ankles.

And if there are no Dachshunds in the immediate vicinity, do the Haka anyway.

In addition to helping you roll your bendy, it’s great for developing your pelvic floor muscles and dating anyone with hairy shoulders.

Keep rolling, keep rocking.

There’s no hiatus here.

No stillness, no stuck, no immobility: Just a gentle shaking of your gazelle womb, teasing the fire from your bendy, snuffing out the flames, cooling down the embers, flipping the temperature down a farenheit at a time.

Monday, September 21, 2015

They persuade you to invite them into your home, make with the dental floss on their first visit to the bathroom, and before you know it, you’re spreadeagled on the floor having your lifeblood vacuumed from your neck by some weirdo in a cape.

As relationships go, it’s a very one-sided affair.

But what about the people who want you for more than your blood?

The people who cross your threshold because you invited them in — and there’s no catch?

Maybe you’ve known some of these people for years. Or maybe they’ve only recently arrived on the scene.

But they’re here now, all of them, hopping and up and down on your doorstep, ring a-dinging frantically on your doorbell.

It’s fine to turn away vampires if you can — but what do you do when all the good guys come knocking, for all the bestest reasons, and multiple acts of turning away are a MUST?

Personally, I hate this scenario.

I exist only to slay evil.

So while nothing pleases me more than laying honey traps for vampires, and working out ever more cunning ways of spraying odourless garlic-rich contact poison onto dental floss, I am loathe to spurn genuine visitors simply because I’m mortal and time is finite.

The easy solution is to blow kisses and say, “thanks for your interest, I’m busy right now, try again tomorrow.”

If you answer the door holding an iron and a lace doily, this tactic works every time.

Problem is, tomorrow your doorstep will be more crowded than ever.

Easier still is not answering the door, but unless you’re prepared also to seal off your chimney and lavatory, a few resourceful people will find their way to your inner sanctum, possibly wearing wetsuits.

In my experience, plans resulting in the spontaneous appearance of people wearing wetsuits and the invasion of your inner sanctum are best avoided. The only solution is to train up a cutesy piglet, and send it out into the throng with a chocolate-laden silver tray strapped to its back.

Let it trot, let it mingle, let it oink.

As people pluck chocolates from its back and mutter things like, “oh, what a cutesy piglet,” or, “may I swap my Montelimar for your Cock & Balls Hazelnut Whopper?”, maybe they’ll forget for a moment why they showed up.

If perchance they remember to knock on your door once they’re done — who cares if you don’t answer, because HEY! CHOCOLATE!

AND A CUTESY PIGLET!!!

Maybe in the future, they’ll show up just to take in the sideshow.

Maybe they’ll show up in droves.

Meanwhile, you get to speculate in your inner sanctum, free from the distraction of having to deal right now with people who are falling over themselves to feast on your time because they love you more than piglets and chocolates.

You get to work.

Some time in the future, you may peer from behind the sanctum curtain.

Thursday, September 17, 2015

Either it’s hopelessly uneasy to use, or if it’s supposed to replicate or simulate a dog (for example), the very last thing it ever does is replicate or simulate any kind of actual dog, real or simulated.

Most of the simulated dogs I’ve seen in action look to me either like cats or monkeys.

So I don’t figure on the world being overrun by robots any time soon.

Case in point: My new ultra hi-tech printer is so sophisticated that it’s impossible to get it to do anything properly.

Tell it to print three sheets of A4 — and it prints six (twice).

Tell it to max on the colour — and it scans the carpet.

Tell it to add labels — and it invades Liberia, firing off lasers and sucking the brains of children into its Chimera Genesis Pod.

I’m convinced The Singularity is a myth invented by right wing politicians to keep down workers’ wages.

“Be grateful you’re lucky to be granted three bucks an hour for what the Japanese kids’ toys of tomorrow will shit in milliseconds — and while you’re at it, MAKE ME A GODDAMN CUP OF CAPPUCCINO.”

See? I shouted that out loud, and my printer did nothing — because that Chimera Genesis Pod is a fiction.

Monday, September 14, 2015

Yeah, so right now, there’s a whole bunch of abandoned monkeys loafing around on a whole bunch of circus tent fabric, twiddling thumbs and looking kinda pissed off.

Worst thing?

This bunch of monkeys ain’t even a united bunch.

This bunch of monkeys is an amalgamation of a whole bunch of monkey sub-bunches.

And even the amalgamation is more of an unlucky accident than any kinda meticulously deliberated mass primate welding.

Don’t even get me started on the rag rug mismatch of circus tent fabric colours.

No one’s in charge of these rejected primates, and pretty soon they’re all gonna start pecking at one another’s bumholes and pulling on fur for fleas.

Then the food will run out, some of the bigger monkeys will start bossing the rest of the assembled apehood around, and a suffocated human cannonball will roll from a flap of tent fabric to provoke a bloodbath.

Maybe then, the ringmasters responsible for this whole debacle will figure the folly of their ways and rush to reclaim their monkey and circus combos, cracking the whip anew and parading around in top hats till every last chimp knows its place in the grand scheme of things and can juggle bananas to order.

My problem here is this:

With so many monkeys whooping and a-dooping about the place, and crumpled circus tent after crumpled circus tent barfing up blue strongman after strangulated acrobat troupe after asphyxiating mother of three, how will the ringmasters successfully round up all of their own monkeys — and only their own monkeys?

Now they’ve been given the freedom to hang out long enough to want to kill each other or riot, those monkeys are going to fit back inside their respective tents like unleashed genies slip neatly back into bottles.

Bet none of the ringmasters thought about that when they nonchalantly dropped their circusloads of monkeys on the world to writhe and scream in a pre-insurrection cesspit of primate fear and anger.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Hungry like a wolf,prowling as a cat,deadly as a snake,and much more than that,

September comes a callin’for Fall, and gives a maulin’to Summer’s final flush of old, dead green.

And I am a woeful monster,cut from my smilesas a gay bustard winged by a low flying jetor a drone,

wishing for more time of seed to bloom,water to paddling pool,grass cuttings from grass,fine animals risen from slumberto chase nut, sunrise or worms,and frozen fruity drinkssucked raw from their sticks,even at lukewarm dead of night.

Tears flow,but they do not sow.

The ground is gone to seed,not risen from’t.

And soon,September’s herald of gloomwill usher ina time of bones filled with hollow air,the fixed stares of unenthusiastic dogs out on walks,and no green stalks or shootsto promise flower;only dead bark and the rotting corpses of mushroomswill offer succour to the growerof plenty within uswho romped across beach and dale and underpass,drowned in sunlight,bathed in antiraindrops,kissed by the spirits of elvesin juiciest glade.

Hear these words,hug their sense,cavort with their meaning.

For death comes,

death,

death,

death.

And September is its courier, its messenger, its email, its virus.Browning what is greenlike the soiled comfort blanketof a child fond of apples,crisping what is lushlike a spiteful chef burning French friesfor a party of sixhe dislikes intensely,rotting what is goodlike the Devil himselfself-harming live on YouTube,burying dead as deadin the chilling soilall hope of happiness and gaietytill steps takenforward or backward in the gloometch gravestone marks in the very sod.

SeptemberOh SeptemberOh, Oh September —

how shall we endure the thirty days and thirty nights we spend with Ye?

Watching as the earth dies,turns to crisps and crunches of leaves at our feet,as squirrels shiver and runand birds throttle their own song?

Hear me,fellows.

Be strong.

‘Tis Nature’s finest test,a proving ground for the miseries yet to come.like you were a boy of eleven or twelveraised by a forgotten Amazonian tribe,flappy eared,flappy lipped,penis tied high up against navel,and when the elders release you into the jungle’s dark night,and insects biteat your shamanjuice-infused blood,you scream to be as a babe again,innocent and free,unvisited by terrors,fears mad as dementia,and caterpillars over fourteen inches longwith teethbig enoughto leave scars on your eyes if you falter.

Be strong for September’s test.For time’s elders call you to run for the trees now,like that scared Amazonian child-boy,to battle shrill echoes of emerging death.

You have no flappy ears,no flappy lips,but the tied penis of your inescapable plightpulls tight against your straining gutas fear of a silent demise at the hands of timeruns you cold,dead,frozen as an Icarus blackbirdfired from a cannon into a hailstorm cloud.

Lie still,breathe still,sleep soft under Winter’s shroud.

For Summer will come againwhenSeptember,Oh September,Oh, Oh September —and every death it brings in its wake —lies dead at the feet of the first hare of Spring,

Monday, September 7, 2015

If the world is about anything right now, it’s motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation, motivation. And (most important): MOTIVATION!times a hundred and ten per cent! These are harsh, austere, competitive times, and a man (or a woman man) gotta have spunk, plenty of spunk, squirting from those action glands into the marble tiled, genitalia-massaging hot tubs of success. Ultimately, we are all solely responsible for the outcome of our own lives, and if we’re wandering round complaining that we’re poor, unloved, disabled, dead, or shafted the hell on out of our bugger pipes for some other STUPID reason, then we only have ourselves to blame for THINKING THE WRONG THOUGHTS and TAKING THE WRONG ACTIONS and maybe BEING BORN WITH FUCK GOOFY TEETH. “Hose down your inner hot tub.” “Squirt Action Spunk as a fearless stallion.” “Crush the Feeble with the power of your dreams.” You’ve all heard the hot, new mantras, used them to fire up your rampaging gusto like the strongmen of circuses yore inflated cows’ stomachs to the size of zeppelins with the gush of their own piss — but what does it take to become such an eminently disagreeable bastard that the Law of Attraction blows all of its bounty YOUR WAY? OK — here’s the answer! Remember all the people mercilessly slain by Genghis Khan? No, course you don’t. They were all put to the sword or burned alive or torn to pieces way long ago during ancient history’s Mongol Horde Era. But if you believe in the spirits of the dead — as you must if you’re serious about luxuriating your butt off in life’s hot tub of success — then you can turn the pain, anguish and plain old hatred of these people to your advantage. Now, I see what you’re thinking.Gee, so you’re saying I can call upon the spirits of the dead to help me manifest my dreams and desires, kinda like some folks do with Jesus, only instead of drawing down the power of some do-gooder milksop, I ought to hit on a Big Time destructive barbarian from the savagest era known to man? So — d’oh — why not go straight for the head honcho, and mind meld with Cap’n Slashbowel himself, Genghis Khan?!!! Seems logical, but remember: cruel and unrelentingly vicious though he may have been, Khan was just one guy. Plus, he was one of life’s winners, knowing little of failure, defeat, heartache, despair — and all the other max power emotion shit all the dead guys have in spades! You think Khan is still full of bloodlust as he’s romping around the spirit world on a mad horse? Nah! It’s job done, game over. If he’s got any sense, Khan will be lying on a sun bed having his nails pampered by naked girls, quaffing milkshake after milkshake alongside Hitler, Pol Pot, and Rod Hull. Invite any of these losers to spunk up your mojo and you’ll be motivated and energized as a dishcloth! Truth is, you have to mix it up with all the raging dead guys Khan slew — every last one you can lay your spirit guided hands on. All these agonised souls had heads chopped off, bowels pulled out, eyes gouged from skulls — or else they were burned alive, thrown onto spikes, thrown to the wolves (and worse). Question: Do you think any of these hacked-up, mangled bastards are happy right now? And what do you figure are the odds on them being HUNGRY TO DO SOMETHING REAL MEAN TO EVERY MOTHERFUCKER GETS IN THEIR WAY — if only they could? So, forget Khan, forget Hitler. Fuck it — forget EMU. Leave these pussies alone. Real Deal Headhonchoville = all the dead guys the Mongol Horde Era skewered, burned and butchered from the face of the planet. Call those guys down, and you’re rampaging over the corpses of your enemies, people. You’re dreaming big and actioning the impossible, tooling up your motivation to crush all before you like ants. ANTS!!!THIS IS THE NUMBER ONE HABIT OF EMINENTLY DISAGREEABLE BASTARDS. Make it the biggest tool in your Motivation armoury, and YOU. WILL. RULE. No question.

Jacuzzi Spakkert is an internationally renowned clairvoyant, mystic, business guru, and motivational speaker. He has written scores of bestselling self-help books including The Zodiac of Love, How The Stars Can Get You What You Want, The Coming Age Is Yours, and DESTROY THEM DESTROY THEM ALL. His latest book, There’s No I In Team But Plenty In DIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIE! hits bookstores in October 2015. Jacuzzi lives in a self-built temple in Virginia with his wife, Maureen, their two children, Izaak and DEATHTOTHEBASTARDCRAWLINGHORDES, and twelve thousand devoted followers/mercenaries. The Spakkerts famously sponsor a neglected donkey called Tony.

You can find out more about Jacuzzi Spakkert and his inspirational work here and here.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

The single squash that’s been mushrooming away in my vegetable patch for the entire summer has turned out to be something of a disappointment.

I’d prepared myself for clumps of them, bulging over onto the lawn like the thrashed buttocks of a badly co-ordinated trapeze act from a circus hot on stick and ignorant of all things carrot, but no such thrust of luscious vegetables protruded.

Instead, I have a novelty potato, beached above ground like a veggie maverick, its curiously albinoid skin marginally yellowed by the sun’s ferocity.

In a world run along savagely evolutionary lines, where one miscrinkle of walnut allied to infinite butterfly effects could change the future of the cosmos forever, a squash evidencing such feeble squashiness could easily have earmarked its entire species for extinction with its unbravado.

“See here, Gods of Merciless Atomic Swish,” it cries, oblivious to the pulse of its own puniness (and the rules of evolutionary mayhem), “isn’t it about time you finished off the tomatoes in the greenhouse for being good-for-nothing wastes of space? That way, me and my kind can rape the soil with our roots and proliferate across the universe in an unstoppable bonanza of bulbous squashery!”

Maybe I should lend a hand — an invisibly Darwinian snuffer/swatter of an Adam Smith ‘red in tooth and claw’ hand — and call over a bunch of neighbourhood cats seeking promise of mock peyote.

“See this weirdsy Veg Thang, Adventure Kits?” (Picture them now, a group of 6-8 assorted felines, gathered at my welly-clad feet as I indicate the feeble mis-squashed potato-thing with the tip of a bamboo cane.) “Now is your chance to make with your claws against its rubbery exterior and siphon — with the aid of cat piping I know you conceal beneath your fur — nature’s most potent hallucinogen this side of Sarah Palin’s underarm cheese the heck off into your kitty Tupperware.”